


II. Tranquil - Veni, Vidi, Dormivi.

by 56leon



Series: 2018 Inktober Prompts / Fictober Fills [2]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Cyrus is the main focal point but everybody is present, Final Battle, Gen, Spoilers, honestly I can't even put any other tags because those would be spoilers for the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-24 12:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16175063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/56leon/pseuds/56leon
Summary: Inktober/Fictober Day 2. Tranquil.After every important point in their journey comes to a close, the group has always taken a moment to reflect, to recuperate. To rest. After this battle, though the odds may be slim, Cyrus sorely hopes they can get the rest that they deserve.





	II. Tranquil - Veni, Vidi, Dormivi.

**Author's Note:**

> believe you me, this fucked me up to write more than it's gonna fuck any of you up to read.
> 
> have fun!
> 
> (Note: the song that I listened to on repeat, and therefore probably influenced my writing a bit, was _Heir of Grief from the Homestuck OST. Add to your reading experience by reliving your horrible hamsteak memories, I guess.)_

##  Life is pleasant. Death is PEACEFUL. 

##                          -Isaac Asimov

* * *

Rest. It’s become a ritual. After an emotionally challenging encounter, after another leg of their journey, or even after a particularly hard battle, they’ve all learned to rest. Take a day off, engage in absolute silence and let themselves get lost in anything that isn’t bloodshed and politics. Food, sleep, a book. It’s harder for some than others, but they all know they need it.

However, today is a day of unrest, of pure and unadulterated chaos, and Cyrus Albright finds himself at a crossroads that he knows he will never come back from. In front of him, a massive black entity looms. Galdera. Their final enemy, the god they have no choice but to put to rest, else risk the rest of the world plunging into darkness. However, it’s not a battle easily fought, and not only Cyrus himself, but everybody has been struggling for what feels like millenia, swords and arrows and magic clashing with every power that a nearly omnipotent being can retaliate with. They’re close to the end, they can feel Galdera’s strength waning.......but so is theirs, and they all know who will win out in the end.

Cyrus has enough energy for one final push, one last attack....but he knows that if he unleashes it, it’s over. His legs are already shaking, trying to keep him upright, and the book in his arms feels like blood-stained lead. Any more, and the chances of him coming back immediately drop to zero.

But......he doesn’t think he has a choice.

“Everybody, move aside,” he commands, but they either don’t hear him or refuse to comply. “Move at once!” He tries again, and once more his cry goes unheeded. Most everybody is at the frontline, with the exceptions of himself, Ophilia and Primrose. Even Primrose, who has been dancing nonstop for upwards of two hours now, doesn’t seem to hear him when she’s mere feet away from him, instead barely bending to pick up another inspiriting plum in the transition between a Lion Dance and Peacock Strut.

Before he can attempt to gather their attention a third time, a voice echoes from where its owner is doing battle with Galdera’s left arm. “No,” Tressa shouts, eyes still trained on her enemy and her axe but definitely referring to Cyrus with her reaction. “Whatever you’re doing......whatever you’re planning, just do it!”

His mind races with a million objections, and he struggles for a moment to vocalize even one of them. He has enough mana to formulate an attack, but controlling it.....and they’re all so densely packed, the results would be catastrophic- Cyrus can’t stand to think of the consequences of those actions, and instead shakes his head stubbornly. “But you will all-”

“You think we didn’t plan for this?” Therion is in a shroud of crimson cloth and silver metal, and even as he isn’t touched by Galdera’s attacks, he flinches as if he’s been hurt every time one of the eight weapons floating above him takes a hit. He’s being worn down; they all are. “Listen, Albright, that gate behind us? It’s  _ locked. _ We can’t get out unless we beat this thing, and that’s not happening if  _ you _ don’t blast its ass to next Wednesday.”

There are various shouts of affirmation from around the room, each of his allies targeting a different part of Galdera’s body. With one shot, he knows he can destroy every last cell of the dragon god, but he also knows they’re expecting a lot from him. Not just a martyrdom- no,  _ that  _ would be easier. This......this is genocide. To sacrifice his beloved few for the many who he may never know.

The grip around his tome tightens, but his resolve wavers. He’s not strong enough to do what they’re asking him to, he’s just not......even if he must, even if he knows that the sacrifice would mean protecting the world from evil incarnate, eight lives on his hands- eight precious treasures all stolen by one action- he begins to shake, knowing what he  _ has to do _ and what he  _ wants to do _ are so at odds that the most he can do at that moment is absolutely nothing.

“Please......” Ophilia’s voice breaks him out of his stupor, approaching him from the side opposite Primrose, quiet but pleading. Her hand shakes noticeably as it rests on his shoulder, and he doesn’t have the heart to look at her face; he’s unsure if she’s even looking at him as she speaks, herself. “It’s......it’s better this way.”

Unlike her body, her voice is unwavering, but Cyrus can’t find it in himself to stay the same as his voice shakes at the question he poses next. “Is......is there anybody opposed to this? Please.....” The silence from his allies - Galdera’s roars don’t drown out their replies, because their replies are none to be had - almost hurts more than the pain he knows is to come next. Because death......death isn’t to be shared with the ones you love. Even if they want it.....even if the only other option is the death of the universe itself........

By the gods, he’s such a fool.

He closes his eyes, prays to Aeber, Alephan and any other god willing to listen to an idiot scholar who’s a  _ moron _ and _ in over his head _ and  _ doesn’t want to do this gods, please, anything but his friends, you can take him but don’t take the people who still deserve to live, _ and-

**_“IGNIS ARDERE-!”_ **

Everything fades to white.

* * *

 

_ “You're late, professor.” When Cyrus finally awakens, it's to a familiar voice, beautifully dark and ever amused. Of course Primrose is the first to greet him- she always is, and he has no room to complain. She’s seated, as elegantly as ever, at one corner of a large blanket the same delicate white as her dress, with the others sitting in a small, nearly complete circle around the softly burning fire in the middle. It’s not a campfire or a fireplace, but rather a single, large flame, unsupported by any tinder or wood. It’s warm, but not unbearably so. Bright, but not blindingly so. “Surely you didn’t get held up by another lecture?” _

_ From the other side of Alfyn, Therion snorts, crossing his arms underneath a white cloak that covers his entire torso. His expression is no longer creased with worry, however, and instead his lips curl into a naturally warm smirk. “No, he was probably swarmed by more fans than he knows what to do with. Can’t shake them, even from the Gates of Finis themselves, huh? Must be your undying chivalry. Lucky bastard.” _

_ “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cyrus quips from where he’s standing just a few feet away from the empty spot in the circle, his words - and actions - filled with a comfort that isn’t verbalized but gets translated regardless. “Surely being a gentleman is what one is supposed to do, rather than what one does to expect any sort of reward.” _

_ “Hear hear,” Olberic says in reply, holding one fist up as if holding an invisible beer mug. Like Therion and Primrose - and the others, as well - he is also clothed in white, his old armor instead shed for a casual yet comfortable shirt and pants. “And it would do you well to learn that, Therion.” The thief says nothing in reply, only humming noncommittally as he leans over to rest against Linde’s stomach, the part not already being occupied by a very comfortable H’aanit who is draped in light furs. “It is good to have you with us, though, Professor. We almost thought you wouldn’t make it.” _

_ “Hey, I believed in him!” Tressa shoots him a bright grin, the golden feather in her cap the only color in her otherwise white ensemble. “After all, he’s the only one who really wanted to be here, right? He wouldn’t miss his own party!”  _

_ “Tressa,” Alfyn says as if a warning, but Cyrus simply shakes his head and smiles. It’s all right; what’s past is past, and Tressa is not to blame for any follies in judgment that he may have had. The only thing they can do now is look back and reminisce. “Well,” Alfyn finally continues after seeing the expression on his face, “either way, we didn’t really expect ya to flake or anythin’. Not that would’ve been a bad thing! We’d still be waitin’ here for ya, after all. Yer one of us.” That earns nods of reassurance from everybody involved, and this time the next to speak is H’aanit. _

_ “Regardless of the possibilities, though, thou comest at a good time now, Professor. We weren just about to worry.” Linde growls softly in agreement, and H’aanit places a gentle hand on top of her companion’s head. “The flame flickereth for far too long, and your spot was......lonely.” _

_ He looks over to the spot in question, and Ophilia grins softly, patting the gap in the circle right between her and Tressa. It’s inviting, and he’s struggled against it futilely for so long that he no longer feels hesitant about taking the offer. The ground is soft and springy, like what a marshmallow must feel like, and he almost sinks into it, much to the amusement of the cleric. “Well,” she hums softly as soon as he’s situated at last, “was I right in the end, professor?” _

_ “Yes, I will admit that you were right,” he replies, laughing lightly. Alfyn shoots him a wide grin and thumbs up from directly opposite him, while Olberic gives him a serene smile not unlike the one he knows has always been reserved for Philip. H’aanit and Linde are inseparable as always, human leaning against leopard as they let down their guard for the first time in their life, while Primrose and Therion are pure, unmarred by the pasts they’ve finally been able to leave behind. They're here. They're _ all _ here. And maybe Cyrus shouldn't be as happy as he is, not when being here means being so far away from Orsterra, but peace settles around them and he can't help but smile as they all lean on each other. Friends- no, they’re family, finally together with no threat looming over them. Now, they won't have to worry any longer. “This is much more preferable than dying alone.” _

_ For the first time in a long while, Cyrus Albright really, truly rests. _


End file.
